


Siren, Sirens (Violins, Violins)

by orphan_account



Series: Coyote [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: A fic about the Antagonize button basically, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, fight fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John punches Arthur much like he kisses him. Arthur delivers responding blows as if he's kissing him right back.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Coyote [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1736950
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Siren, Sirens (Violins, Violins)

**Author's Note:**

> derived from the idea of
> 
> John: *punches Arthur in his fucking face*  
> Arthur: woah my bad didn't mean to moan like that
> 
> and listening to ultraviolence with the intentions of getting some Low-Honor Arthur/Micah (yes I'm sorry) vibes off it but instead getting this

There’s something so inviting about it, Arthur can’t exactly pinpoint what. Seeing the rage flash behind John’s eyes, a fire so vivid and beautiful Arthur would let himself be scorched by it a million times over. 

John’s always been his favorite person to do this dance with. It’s not the same with anyone else, it never will be. 

A song and dance that’s lasted between the two of them since they were young. As the years went on, the meaning changed. From ill-mannered children scrapping with each other for the hell of it to grown men throwing punches at each other so passionate and heated like they were kisses. Like they were the “I love you”s the both of them uttered at night against each other’s lips and shrugged off in the morning like a heavy coat. 

Arthur lets himself march up to John in camp, he could pinpoint him in a crowd of millions in a matter of seconds. Blood already pumping fast in his veins with each heavy step that carries him closer to John. He’s sitting in front of the fire, head down. Alone. John never was one for a crowd, anyway. 

John doesn’t look up, he never does. But by the way his whole body tenses Arthur can tell he senses him. He knows he’s there, and he knows his intent. Funny how John never tires of it either. 

Arthur lets himself greet John with harsh words with an even harsher meaning. John finally looks up, and there’s that fire that Arthur finds warmer than a thousand suns. Finally, after spitting poison back and forth between the two of them, gaining a few wary glances from the passing camp members, John stands. Body rigid and brows furrowed. He’s ready for a fight. He was ready the second he felt Arthur approach. 

John’s flexing his hand, his right hand. The hand that’s connected with Arthur’s jaw in so many jarring blows. Arthur could get off on just watching John wind himself up. 

When one too many words have been said, John takes a swing. Hard enough to send Arthur stumbling and falling back on the ground. His wide-open palms take most of the landing, and they sting from the impact. 

John’s on him in an instant, long spindly legs straddling either side of Arthur. One hand fisted in Arthur’s shirt and the other raised above him, preparing for another strike. Arthur is the one to deliver the second blow, just to give him something to push him even further. John takes the punch almost gracefully, and when he looks back down at Arthur, his lip is bleeding. 

John’s hair is long curtains around his face, a few strands sticking to the sides of his temple with sweat. His mouth is bleeding, his eyes are wide and dark. And he’s absolutely breathtaking. Arthur’s almost taken off guard when John punches him again. Right in the nose. 

John pulls his fist back and there’s blood on his knuckles. Arthur’s blood. 

Arthur raises his fingers to his nose and pulls them away. Red coats his fingers. John’s probably broken his nose, not like he wouldn’t deserve it. 

Arthur doesn’t make for a responding strike, but instead grabs onto the collar of John’s shirt with both hands and pulls him forward. John lets himself be pulled down and Arthur kisses him and he tastes like blood. Sweat, dirt, and now, the coppery tang of fresh blood. 

John kisses him back with matched intensity, the two of them still gripping at each other’s shirts like vices when Arthur shifts his weight, rolls John over on his back and straddles his hips instead. 

John kisses like he fights, with as much intensity and fire to make Arthur feel as if he’s drowning. He’s also the first to break the contact, breathing hard and heavy just as he was moments ago when they were exchanging punches. And he laughs, just as dark. A flash of white teeth coupled with an empty, humorless breathy chuckle. 

He calls Arthur a son of a bitch and Arthur can’t say he disagrees. It still doesn’t stop him from landing another strike across John’s jaw.


End file.
